


Type Three

by CumberCurlyGirl



Series: Nine and a Half Weeks [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - America, America, Dom John Watson, First Meetings, Johnlock - Freeform, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Riding Crops, Sherlock is 18, Teen Sherlock, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-21 16:38:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14919008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CumberCurlyGirl/pseuds/CumberCurlyGirl
Summary: Eighteen year old Sherlock sells a riding crop to a handsome, charismatic customer and things take an unexpected turn.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a Twitter chat with the "Guild of Serious Writers". Written in one sitting with a glass of bourbon. By request, the story continues in the sequel "Nine and a Half Weeks" which you can read by clicking on the next in series button.

Sherlock stands behind the counter of Rod’s Western Palace, thinking about what he is going to do after graduation next month. Where will he go when he is free of this tediousness? Away. Anywhere. Anywhere but Ohio. It is so damn boring here. He is certain that middle-western America is not where he belongs. The people here, at least the one's he knows in this small town, don't understand him; half the time he feels like a freak. He is meant for better things, his mom always told him so. Before she went and died and before he started screwing up. Europe sounds exciting but how could he ever hope to afford such a thing, a poor kid practically on his own? But he can dream, and he does. 

The bell on the door, indicating a new customer, clangs loudly, interrupting his thoughts.

Sherlock eyes the man entering the shop. It's a Saturday morning, usually a busy time, but not today. On a typical Saturday, the shop would be full of two types of people. 

Type One: Girls in love with horses. Little girls, teenagers, older women. What was it with women and horses anyway? They came in in droves, buying riding boots, brushes, jodhpurs and chaps. Plucking show bills from the bulletin board, planning for the next horse show. Giggling. Dull.

Type Two: Men wanting to look macho, buying cowboy boots, hats and belt buckles. For God’s sake, you would think it was goddamn Oklahoma, not Ohio.

This Saturday, the shop was empty. There was a big horse show going on at the Franklin County fairgrounds all weekend, most likely the horsey people were there. Rod's had a booth, and the other employees were there now, leaving Sherlock alone for the morning.   

The man entering the shop is neither type one nor type two.  He is a man of somewhat less than average height, maybe 5’7” or 8”. He seems taller though, exuding self-confidence. He is blonde and well built. He is wearing jeans, Converse tennis shoes, a tight-fitting Nike tee shirt, and looks to be in his early thirties. Sherlock knows from the way that he carries himself that he had been in the military, maybe still is. Might be injured. The way he moves is a bit off. Shoulder? This is something Sherlock cannot turn off, this reading of people, the attention to detail that is a compulsion. It tends to drive away the people in his life before he can form a relationship, not that he cares. 

“Hello, can I help you find something?” Sherlock offers.

“Riding crops,” says the man in a British accent, unusual in this rural Ohio setting.  

“Over here.” Sherlock leads the way to the back of the store, and the blonde man follows.

As he walks, Sherlock has the most peculiar feeling that the man is staring at his ass. He doesn't know how he knows this, he just does, and he feels a flush creeping up his neck to his cheeks.

At the very back of the store is the display of riding crops.  

“So, where do you ride?” Sherlock asks casually.

“Nowhere,” says the man, picking up a riding crop and flicking it against his thigh, experimentally.  

“Oh.”

There was a “type three” customer, much rarer than type one or two. The employees always joked about these men, and they were _always_ men. Women interested in "recreational punishment" were probably too embarrassed to walk into a tack shop and purchase just a riding crop, they likely bought them discreetly on Amazon, just another cardboard box on the porch, alongside identical boxes filled with romance novels, Barbies and socks. Men didn’t seem to care. Sometimes two men would come in and select one together.  

“I think I’ll just look for a minute,” says the man.

“OK,” Sherlock says, taking a few steps away, pretending to highlight something in the chemistry textbook he is carrying.  

He watches with his peripheral vision as the man, this strangely attractive man, inspects the black leather crops, running his fingers over them, for Christ’s sake, even smelling them. Sherlock knows what they smell like, for he has smelled them too. Leather. He does love the smell of leather.   

The man browses, and Sherlock continues to pretend to be engrossed in chemistry. This guy is hot, and Sherlock can't help but let his thoughts wander as the man continues to handle the crops. 

In his mind, Sherlock pictures a black leather crop, wielded by this man, tracing up his thigh, over his hip gently, before being raised and falling hard with a loud “whack” across his bare buttocks, sending delicious reverberations of pain through his flesh.  Sherlock draws in a little gasp of air, and the man looks over at him, a smirk on his lips. His dark blue eyes fix on Sherlock's lighter ones, and Sherlock feels his stomach flip.    

“Which one would you recommend?”

“Well, I’m not really qualified…”

“Of course you are,” says the man, stepping closer to Sherlock, invading his personal space, eyes sweeping the store to make sure that they were still alone.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re balancing college level equations. You're smart. You're overqualified for this place. And you're definitely qualified to tell me which one of these crops you would most like me to whip that sweet, skinny ass with until you beg me to stop,” says the man, with a smile on his face. As he says this, he places the tip of the crop he is holding between Sherlock’s legs and draws it slowly over Sherlock’s crotch and up his stomach and chest until it rests beneath his chin. "Right before I fuck you," he adds. 

Sherlock feels his cock harden and his knees threaten to buckle.  He can feel his heart pounding in his chest and is sure that this man can see it under the flimsy material of his tee shirt. 

“That one’s good,” is all he can manage, breathless.

“I’ll take it then,” says the man, looking into his eyes intently, still holding the crop under Sherlock’s chin. 

Sherlock wonders for a second if the man is going to kiss him.  Suddenly, he wants very much to be kissed.

Instead, the man smiles and walks toward the front of the store, to the cash register. After he collects his wits, Sherlock follows him.

The man pays for the crop.

“Name’s John Watson.”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Nice to meet you, Sherlock,” John says. He takes Sherlock’s hand and, turning it over, holds it for a moment, rubbing the smooth palm gently with his thumb before writing a phone number in pen on Sherlock’s wrist. “I think we are going to be great friends.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

For those that subscribed to this work, I have added this chapter to let you know that a sequel has been written and can be read by proceeding to the next work in this series. I hope that you enjoy!

 

**Author's Note:**

> Rod's Western Palace is a real tack shop in Ohio, where I spent many hours as a young horsewoman. I was definitely a Type 1.


End file.
